


Double Trouble

by Fenix21



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, I'm Serious, Mpreg, Mpreg!Sam, Swearing, double birth, double labore, double mpreg, graphic birth, if you don't like mpreg DO NOT CLICK HERE, mpreg!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:37:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4035436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenix21/pseuds/Fenix21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam get hexed/cursed and go into labor and deliver together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ObsidianRomance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianRomance/gifts).



> So the title is incredibly uninventive, but it gets the point across. This is purely a labor and delivery piece, and the boys are having a pretty rough time. Little sweetness and love thrown in at the end just for good measure.
> 
> This for the lovely ObsidianRomance whose writing I am seriously missing at the moment: I hope your eye is doing better, love, and if not, hopefully someone will be kind enough to print this for you so you don't have to read it on the computer screen. I know I haven't written you lately, and I feel like an absolute heel, but here's some lovely mpreg to try and make up for it. Happy reading, sweetie!

'Fuck!' Dean grits out, panting hard. 'Sam, this fucking…sucks!'

Sam doesn't answer, just groans his own reply, and Dean doesn't have to look down between his knees to know that his brother is working down out of his own pain just the same as Dean.

Eight months ago when Sam finally figured out it was a fertility goddess that the  witch they'd ganked last November had made a pact with, Dean thought, okay this completely sucks but there must be some sort of solution, some sort of anti-curse? And if there was, Sam would find it, because that's what Sam did. He disassembled any problem put in front of him into its base components and read them like a book and made them give up their answers like they were just words on a page to him. 

Unfortunately, Sam's solution had involved pilfering a portable sonogram unit from the back of an EMS vehicle after two months of research had kept pointing him toward one, and only one, very scary, very impossible answer to the growing, swelling, tenderness in both their midsections and the constant nausea that threatened from morning 'till night, Sam's sudden random lapses in logic, and Dean's increasing lack of scoffing at chick-flick moments. And of course, Sam could read a sonogram. Of course he could, 'cause it was just one of those things, you know, that _normal_ people picked up. So, Dean didn't doubt his brother when he smeared Dean's belly with fucking _freezing cold_ gel and pushed an equally cold piece of plastic and metal around until he let out that sudden little huff that Dean had come to recognize early on meant Sam just confirmed his theory.

'Sam, what is it?' he'd asked.

Sam just shook his head, handed over a towel and the plastic wand-thingy, and rucked up his shirt and laid back on their motel bed. 

'Do me,' he said and directed Dean in where to put the wand and how slow to move it and where to stop when Sam's breath hitched hard at whatever he was seeing in the little black and white, grainy, staticky picture on the screen his eyes were glued to. 

Six months later, Dean's unclenching his fingers from the headboard where he's been gripping so hard he can barely feel them and fists and unfists them to try and get some blood flowing again. He's only got a few seconds, he knows, because he can feel the pain building in his lower back again already. Can't get a fucking break here, he thinks sourly as he shifts his hips a little in an effort to redistribute the intense weight and pressure bearing down into his pelvis. Between his knees, Sam huffs a breath.

'How ya doin', Sammy?'

'Peachy,' Sam pants out. He's on his knees, leaning forward, supporting his weight on Dean's own spread knees. Dean thinks it's a hell of an awkward position and if he had any brain cells left in reserve to think about it, he'd probably be embarrassed. But Sam has sworn that it's the most comfortable position he can find for himself, with the benefit of being able to keep at least some kind of track of Dean's progress, because it's him they're worried about most seeing as how he's got the bouncing baby boy weighing down his belly, and Sam's got the dainty little girl. Fucking backwards if you ask Dean's opinion, since Sam is the damn Sasquatch and has about two hundred percent more room on that long stretched-out frame of his to carry the nine-plus-pound wonder that Dean has been lugging around the last nine months. So, Sam is kneeling, legs spread wide, hips tilted forward, near the end of the bed, and as the next contraction launches itself across Dean's round, tight, hardened midsection, he really doesn't give a fuck about positions or embarrassing views or any of that stuff because Jesus _Christ_! This _hurts_!

The pressure in his pelvis increases exponentially for a moment as the pain peaks, and then he feels something give, just a little, and the contraction releases him, gasping and red-faced, back into the pillows.

'Breathe…just breathe,' Sam is saying, but it's a distracted litany, and Dean manages a glance between his splayed knees, that Sam is gripping with hooked fingers hard enough to bruise, to see his brother's face is a mask of stony concentration as his whole body tenses with his own contraction.

'Sammy?'

Sam doesn't speak, just gives a quick shake of his head, but Dean can tell when it's over, because he lets off the pressure on Dean's kneecaps.

'I can't do this, Dean,' Sam whines. And it _is_ a whine, like the time he was twelve and had to shoot that kid who was only about a year younger than himself straight through the heart because some insane bitch of a Werewolf had bitten her own goddamn _child_ for chrissakes! 'I just can't! Fucking…hurts too bad…Dean!'

Sam's lost again, knees spreading a little further apart, hips sinking lower and wider, tilting further forward because if Dean's any judge from what's going on in his own body, then Sam's baby girl is trying like hell to make her debut right about now. And Dean wants to try and comfort Sam, somehow, to help him bear up under the exhausting pain that they've both been in for nearly twelve hours, but his own body isn't giving him a chance. 

The pain is hard and heavy and so much worse than what it has been as it reaches with a crushing grip around his belly and squeezes down until Dean is forced to bow his back and bear down with it, pushing like hell against that pressure between his legs until he feels like he's going to rip apart, because that tiny release he felt earlier? That was just the valve on something bigger. The heavy hitters are starting now, and Dean barely gets a chance to suck in another breath before his muscles are contracting so hard that his belly almost looks misshapen.

'Dean? Dean. Dean!' Sam's trying to get his attention. His voice is tight with his own pain, but obviously something happening with his brother is dragging him close enough to the surface that he can focus on something besides the clenching, gripping pain in his own belly. 'Dean, you have to take a breath. You _have_ to! Relax. Stop pushing. Stop!'

Sam's angry command finally gets Dean's attention and he hauls up short, sucks in some air, and freezes every muscle in his body. The pain won't let him go, won't release him back, or let him relax like Sam wants him to, but he can stop, pause, try and listen to what Sam is saying between his own panting breaths.

'Dean, you can't…push…so hard!' Sam grips Dean's knees hard and lets out a strangled shout. 'Jesus… _fuck_!' He pants, breathes, pants some more. He reaches to pat Dean's thighs into a wider position. 'You're bearing down, Dean. Means…the baby's about to...crown. Gotta be careful…to not push too fast…too hard…'

And Sam's lost again, face contorting, losing whatever control he was trying to maintain through this whole thing as a long, keening cry comes up from his throat. And, again, Dean wants to help him, but his reprieve is over. No matter what Sam says, this thing is happening, and it's happening now.

Dean bows forward, hunching up over his belly, grunting down long and hard into the unrelenting urge to push, to bear down hard, to get this baby born…right the fuck now. 

Sam's losing it between his knees, no longer able to monitor Dean's progress, dropping down to all fours and hunching up on himself, crying out as his own body preps him for the final run. Dean grabs at his knees, hauls up on them hard, spreads himself as wide as he possibly can, feels his body stretching and stretching, fucking _burning_ like hellfire! 

His son is big. They already determined that. That's why Sam was trying to keep a look out, trying to be sure he was angled right, and turned, and all that important stuff, trying to make sure Dean didn't tear and bleed. But it doesn't matter now. Sam's lost, grunting and groaning, one arm wrapped under his low slung belly while he makes impossible animalistic noises between deep gulps of air and pushes and keeps pushing.

Dean does the same. He yanks on his knees, drawing them up even further, until his belly is practically between his thighs and he can feel the pressure giving, so slowly, pushing down, pushing out. His body is stretching as he grunts deeper, bears down harder, shouts some unformed syllable of sound as his son's head breaches him, opens him, strains his body to the fucking limit of what he can take. He huffs, pants, sucks in a quick breath, and then doubles down with the pain. The urge is too strong and undeniable and he nearly screams when he feels the sudden change in the stretch and burn between his legs and fumbles with one hand to get a palm cupped around the wet curve of his son's head as it emerges from his body.

'Sammy!' he gasps out, uselessly, as the shoulders start to come, putting so much stretch and burn on him that Dean finally cries, sobs with the pain, but then spreads himself wider still, one hand still cupped to his son's skull, and grunts like a rutting grizzly bear just up from hibernation, putting everything he has into opening himself to get his son born.

It happens in a rush. He feels his body go tense and tight and his vision starts to white out a little as he pushes and pushes without breathing, and then its done. Over. Hot gush of motion and fluid, and his son is in his hands squalling, body all tense and shriveled and…fucking ugly if Dean's to be honest, but very much there and alive and…oh my god. Dean's a dad now.

Sam is in the final throughs of his own labors Having shifted up onto his haunches, he's facing Dean now, thighs spread wide, body stretched impossibly around the crown of his daughter's head as she very slowly emerges into her father's waiting hands. Sam's belly is as tight and misshapen as Dean's was in those last moments of bearing down, and Sam's hunched as far forward as he can go around his belly without toppling forward and out of position. Dean tries to move to offer some sort of help, but he's entangled with the slimy wet infant in his arms, and his stomach's already turning at the sight of Sam's body so misshapen and stretched, thinking about the fact that his own body was doing that only moments ago, and then there's all the fluid and gross stuff coming, and he's pretty sure he's gonna hurl when this is all done.

Sam's got his focus back, though, and he's bearing down into the pain, and Dean can almost see the baby's progression out of the protective swell she's lived in for the last nine months, down into Sam's stretched birth canal and out into the open. Inch by slow inch Sam's pushing her down and out into his huge, broad, perfectly steady palms. Her head crowns fully, Sam pauses a half a heartbeat to breathe in, and then her head is in his hands, and he's tugging ever so gently as his face contorts a little with the added burn and impossible stretch of his body around her tiny, curved-in shoulders.

And then she's out, mewling and crying in the cradle of Sam's hands, and he's dropping back completely, shaking like a sapling in a hurricane, trying to stay upright, bringing her up to his broad chest and cuddling her close, and it's then that Dean's body finally decides to betray him…and he cries. He fucking _bawls_ , seeing his little brother holding his daughter for the very first time, all gray and slimy and wet and shaking, sure, but so perfect and tiny and alive, that Dean just doesn't have room in his chest for the feeling flooding out of his heart. 

The next half hour is messy, a little painful, and Dean does end up vomiting into a well placed trashcan by the bed because Sam is just really smart like that and knows his brother better than the periodic table, which he had memorized at the age of six.

Sam's exhausted, but somewhere he's garnered this reserve of energy that gets him through cutting and tying off necessary things, cleaning up the mess, wiping down the mewling, wiggling infants, and getting both he and Dean moved to the clean, unused bed in fresh sweats and tees.

Dean is sore. More sore he thinks than he has ever been in his entire life, give him a full set of cracked ribs over this any day, and tired. Jesus, he's fucking _exhausted_ , and he can see that his little brother is, too, in the slight tremor that takes over his limbs every time he pauses for more than two seconds in what he's doing. Dean should move. He should help Sam, but all he can do is lay propped against the headboard where Sam installed him, holding these live-action baby dolls in his arms and marveling at them with a mix of awe and trepidation, because he really doesn't have one damn clue what comes next in all this.

Sam seems to have a magic bag somewhere that keeps producing things like little onesies and baby blankets and burp cloths and bottles complete with formula, and when he finally drops next to Dean on the mattress, he hands over one of the bottles.

'Just…only let him drink an ounce or two at a time, then burp him and—' Sam starts to instruct.

'Dude, I got it,' Dean says, taking the bottle, finally in a zone that is somewhat familiar if a little disused. 'I remember how.'

Sam lifts an eyebrow. 'Huh?'

'I gave you most of your bottles, Sammy,' Dean reminds him, and very gently hands over the tiny little girl who's been cuddled in the crook of his arm for the last twenty minutes while her papa was doing his Hercules and the Ten Tasks impression and taking care of her uncle and all the leftover grossness from her and her cousin's birth. 

'Oh,' Sam says, a little stunned as he takes his daughter, arms suddenly a little shakier, a little less sure.

Dean notices, puts a hand on his brother's elbow. 'You got this, man. It's okay.'

Dean hikes his son a little higher on his chest and brushes the soft nipple of the bottle across his bottom lip once before the bowed little mouth opens and greedily latches on, sucking like a champ.

'Definitely his father's son,' Sam muses with a very tired smile, and he mimics Dean's actions with his daughter and gets only a slightly less enthusiastic response. 

They sit in silence for several minutes until Dean props the bottle he's holding against his chin and opens his arm to Sam, who is starting to tip very slowly to the side. Sam gratefully eels up the bed and reclines into Dean's side, cradling his daughter in the crook of his arm by Dean's hip. Dean settles his arm around Sam's shoulders and readjusts his own armful to somehow miraculously hold both infant and bottle with one arm and hand.

'Wow, you really _do_ remember how to do this,' Sam marvels softly, tiredly.

'Like ridin' a bike,' Dean says. 'I _am_ good for some things.'

Sam just shakes his head and turns his attention to the tiny person in his arms making contented little sucking sounds and tiny little sighs. He hasn't really had a chance to take her in yet, for the realization to hit him that he's holding part of himself, and Dean feels the moment it happens when his little brother's shoulders tighten and then start to tremble. He's crying and Dean knows it, and he doesn't say a word because he knows what it feels like and, hell, he bawled like a baby less than an hour ago just seeing Sam sit there on the end of the bed all sweaty and naked, and a little bloody, but profoundly proud and amazed at what he'd just done.

'Got a name?' he asks softly.

Sam sniffles once, takes a shuddering breath, lets it out long and slow, and then murmurs, 'Jo.'

They haven't talked about names, not between them anyway. Dean had a few ideas of his own that he was bouncing around for his son, but held off on a decision until he could actually get a look at the kid. But when Sam says the name very softly, Dean's throat tightens up and it takes him a minute to get a good handle on his voice to answer Sam's return question of,

'How 'bout you?'

Dean fumbles a bit. 'I was thinking maybe Cody or-or Lucas?'

Sam raises his brows and Dean can tell he's pleasantly surprised Dean didn't come out with John Bonham or Robert Plant or Harrison Hammil or something else of that ilk. 

'Lucas is nice. I like Lucas. Wasn't that the name of the kid you saved up in Manitoc?'

Dean hadn't thought of that town or that kid for years. 'Yeah,' he said. 'Yeah, I guess it was.' 

He turns his son's face up, all chubby cheeks and fuzzy white-blond hair and eyes that are blue but have the barest hint of green at the center, and runs a finger feather-soft over his barely-there eyebrow. 

'Lucas it is.'

He has a bit of a tug-o-war getting Lucas to let go of the bottle so he can turn him up and burp him before settling him back down to finish, and Sam looks up and says sleepily,

'You know we might want to…settle down. For just a little while. Just until we get the hang of this?'

'Been thinkin' about that,' Dean says honestly. 'Maybe a little apartment somewhere. Lay low for a few months. Go off the grid.'

'Yeah,' Sam agrees, smiling a little. 

They lay together for another quiet stretch of minutes and then Sam says very quietly,

'You know, what with the car seats, and extra baby stuff, and all our stuff and…we might…want to think about an SUV?'

Dean smacks Sam on the arm. Hard. Sam hisses a little and gives his brother a bitch-face.

'My Baby can handle babies. Don't you dare knock her.'

Sam just shakes his head and grins and burrows closer to his brother's side.


End file.
